Friday, February 19, 2016

Honey Over Warm Fruit

If I were to ever write a love story this is probably how the opening page would sound:

Her fingertips began to quiver as her neck tightened around her throat. She took a slow deep breath counting it off with closed eyes. Opening them she uttered, "Bear with me, I get incredibly nervous speaking in front of people."

When she swallowed it was like she was pulling her fear down her throat and holding it into submission. While her cheeks and were rosy and flustered with the angst inside but she kept that quirky tinge of a smirk the whole time. Her book opened with ease and it rested on the podium. I could tell that the book must have been fanatically read by the fact she didn’t have to hold it open. It fell open, as books should. She took a deep inhale and looked up at the room for the slightest of a second and quickly returned to her page. It wasn’t that she was shy or timid; her posture was too good for those kinds of insecurities. Firm on both feet, demeanor stern, her overworn muddy boots her bearings to the the ground. She looked as if the weight of the room rested upon her like newborn kittens depend upon their mother for milk. How aware of this weight she was, I can’t say. But I can say that the first word was the hardest for her to get out, but once she started the rest flowed like honey over warm fruit.

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